Thursday, August 17, 2017

It has been a great source of both entertainment—and agony—throughout
my life.

The entertainment—the stories that I’ve created, both real
and . . . less real.

The agony—well let’s just say we’ve finally come to the
subject of this story . . .

When I was little (ie. 4), I slept by myself.

I know it sounds incredible in a household containing (then)
four children that I would get my own room, but it’s true. I was on the lower
floor in the room closest to my parents. All that was between us was the
stairway going up to the room where my older sister slept and that occupied by
my two older brothers.

Moving on . . .

I would happily go to bed each night (It’s my story, I’ll
remember it as I want) with the door open and light spilling into the room from
the activities of those who did not go to bed at dusk.

All was well.

But, inevitably, I would wake sometime in the night to
discover that—while I slept—the scenario had changed.

The most important part of which would be that the lights
were out.

Eep.

Now in the thick darkness, monsters gathered.

I should point out that I had never seen said monsters. But my
vivid imagination (see above) had peopled the darkness with them in astonishing
detail—slavering, sharpened fangs. Giant, little-girl catching claws. Glowing
red eyes. You probably understand.

I knew they were there. They
knew they were there.

Now it was up to my Mom to make them go away.

Off would go the covers and a tiny, little elf-like (okay it’s
time to use your imagination) girl would
scramble madly the few paces to her parent’s room.

Me: “Mom!”

Mom: “Gaahhh!”

Me: “Can I sleep with you?”

Mom: “Fine.”

Dad: “Gaahhh!”

And I would snuggle down between my parents and drift off
blissfully to sleep.

I can’t recall exactly when this practice ended. Suffice it
to say it was at some point before I reached adulthood.

But it was revived after I became a parent.

And had a little four-year-old girl of my own.

The scenario was a bit different. She wouldn’t say anything.
Just silently appear at one’s bedside and wait for one to become cognizant of
the fact that she was there.

Sunday, August 13, 2017

From a story I found in Mom's journals.
For my straight-laced Mom, I'm as surprised as you are . . .

The boss walked in.
All sound in the office ceased as his employees paused in their work to give him their usual cheerful greeting.
(Yes, it was that kind of office.)
As he walked past, person after person called out to him.
But he kept his eyes down and answered none.
For a normally cheerful and effusive boss, this wasn't at all like him.
His employees looked at each other.
Finally, his assistant got to his feet. "Something must be wrong," he announced to the others. "I'll go see." He knocked once at the closed door, then, without waiting for a response, entered.
"Everything okay, Boss?" he asked.
His boss sank with a groan into his leather chair. "No," he said. He leaned forward and put his head into his hands. "I've got the worst headache!"
His assistant moved closer. "I'm so sorry to hear that." He paused and pursed his lips thoughtfully, tapping them with one finger. "You know a couple of days ago, I had a terrible headache, too."
The boss lifted his head just enough to peep out at his assistant with one eye. "Yeah? What did you do?"
"I went home to my wife." The man smiled. "She kissed and cuddled me. One thing led to another and suddenly, I had no more headache!"
"Hmmm." The boss got to his feet. "That might be worth a try." He reached for his hat. "Would your wife be home now?"

Now the officer was staring at me. “I suppose your sister
taught him that, too.”

“Well . . . yes. I guess so. That was another thing she said—”

“Just before she disappeared.”

I frowned at him. “I don’t know if I like your tone.”

He shrugged. “What you like or don’t like is immaterial.
What matters now is . . .”

Someone knocked.

I moved past him into the hall but felt him come up behind
me as I opened the front door and looked out onto an empty stoop. “Huh. No one
here.”

The knocking came again. This time from somewhere behind us.

We both turned.

Another knock. I tipped my head, trying to decide where the
noise was coming from.

“I think it’s coming from the living room.” The officer
pointed with his pencil.

I made a face as I walked back into the room we had left
only moments before. “It couldn’t have come from here—” I began.

Bang!

I jumped and, I’m not sure, but I think the officer screamed
a little.

And yes, it was a girly scream. Probably an occupational
hazard.

“Is this thing on?” It sounded like Norma’s voice. I looked
at Reggie. He was in lethal weapon mode, puffed up to approximately three times his usual size.

Not a good sign.

“Testing. Testing. Can you hear me?”

I looked around, trying to find a possible source for the
voice, finally going to the kitchen door to peer inside. Nothing.

“Hello? Hellloooo!”

I was once again standing in the middle of the living room.
I cleared my throat and looked up toward the ceiling. “N-Norma?”

“Oh it does work! They said it would!” The voice sounded
cheerful. Happy.

I frowned. “What works?” I looked at the officer, who was standing in
the doorway, the picture of confusion.

“Who are you talking to?” he mouthed the words.

“Norma!” I mouthed back, pointing upward.

“Right.” He snapped his notebook shut and stuck his pencil
behind his ear. Between you and me, I didn’t realize people still did that. “I don’t know who you think you’re kidding, ma’am,” he said, his mouth twisting into
an ugly line. “But there are charges for people who play tricks and waste
officers’ time.” He turned and disappeared into the hall.

I started after him. “Honest, officer, I know as much about
this as you!”

He was already at the door. “I’ll be back,” he said, putting one
hand on the doorknob. “To give you and that fraudster sister of yours the
dressing down you deserve. One or both of you is going to end up in custody!”

Eep.

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Today’s post is a writing challenge. This is how it works: participating bloggers picked 4 – 6 words or short phrases for someone else to craft into a post. All words must be used at least once and all the posts will be unique as each writer has received their own set of words. That’s the challenge, here’s a fun twist; no one who’s participating knows who got their words and in what direction the writer will take them. Until now.

At the end of this post you’ll find links to the other blogs featuring this challenge. Check them all out, see what words they got and how they used them.

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My novel, Carving Angels

My Second Novel: Kris Kringle's Magic

About the Mom

Diane was born and raised on one of the last of the great old Southern Alberta ranches. A way of life that is fast disappearing now. Through her memories and stories, she keeps it alive. And even, at times, accurate . . .